


Prix Fixe

by poisontaster



Series: Sateda Dean [7]
Category: Stargate Atlantis, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Ficlet, Gen, Past Relationship(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-26
Updated: 2008-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-01 16:37:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5213042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The past comes back to haunt you in unexpected ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prix Fixe

They stumbled across the first one by accident.

A stone—boulder—tucked into the sheltered lee of an overhang, and scrawled on it, probably with another rock: **Sateda was betrayed!** And beneath it, a list of names, fading out into a calcined blurt of broken rock.

Ronon knows all those names. Served with them. Others, he knows from stories. Told to him in confidence, in darkness, in trust. From the names, he knows—down to the bottom of his bones—who wrote them. He knows who was here.

The shallow overhang is empty. It's impossible to tell if the leaves piled there are from design or simply the tide of the wind, blowing them against that which does not move. Ronon doesn't—can't—move either, stabbed deep by this unexpected find.

Everyone is looking at him. He feels their eyes like a sun burn on his skin. But this…this is nothing. A cosmic joke, a typical example of the gods' sense of humor.

Dean, like Sateda—betrayed Sateda—is gone, and there is no sign to tell Ronon or anyone where he's gone, or if he still lives.

Of course he's not alive. Of course not. Ronon's fingers tighten on the trigger of his gun, blinded with the desire to kill something—anything.

"What?" He hears the roughness of his voice. The very sound of it is strange, like the years that separate him from the harsh silence of Running have disappeared. All of that strange, wild time feels too close to the surface. He pushes past McKay, nearly knocking the scientist on his ass, and continues on. They have ten miles to cover to the rendezvous and they're burning sunlight.

Ronon sucks it up and straps it down.

He doesn't touch the stone, but he feels it against his fingertips anyway, rough and grainy, still sharp edged because it's protected by the larger heel of rock. If there is any requiem for the Satedan dead, any reliquary for Dean Win's spirit, this is as good as any other.

Dean is gone. 


End file.
